


lose my breath, calling out your name

by derogatory



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 07:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derogatory/pseuds/derogatory
Summary: "You don't need to, like," Mitsuki swallows and from this angle Yamato canseeit travel down his throat, "drag it out.""Shh," he says, a facsimile of comfort, a crude consolation as he wraps his fingers around Mitsuki's neck. That pulse he saw is now thrumming fast in his grasp, like a rabbit in a trap. "Let your big brother do this."





	lose my breath, calling out your name

**Author's Note:**

> yo before you judge me, read the absolutely bonkers rabbitchats in Yamato's Ainana Keisatsu card ([translation here](http://osakaso5.tumblr.com/post/150863889083/yamato-nikaido-i7-police-rabbit-chat-part-2-the).) I'm not MAKING THIS UP, I'm just filling in LEGITIMATE STORY GAPS yknow..... with fuckin

"We should practice for tomorrow," Mitsuki announces. He shuts the door to Yamato's room behind him, effectively ending the older man's hopes of escaping for a post-filming drinking session.

Yamato leisurely flips ahead in the script. What are they shooting tomorrow, again? He can't quite remember.

"For the fight?" Yamato asks. That's not a bad idea. Fight choreography is a little like dancing, and Mitsuki always needs a few extra tries to hit his mark.

"No," Mitsuki replies, then corrects himself quickly, "Well, yeah, sort of. The choking part."

Yamato's grip on his script tightens. "Practice... choking?" 

"Yeah."

"You're joking."

"No way!" Mitsuki bristles when Yamato laughs. "Don't act like it's weird."

"No, you're right." Yamato grins. "It's not weird at all. It's extremely normal."

Mitsuki fixes him with a withering look. "Old man, you are the last person to lecture me about being normal." Yamato waves the glare off, leaning back in his chair.

"All right, so say I agree to this." He tries to ignore the thrum of electricity between them, the way Mitsuki's defiant scowl curls up at the edges. "Why would we practice the choking? It's not real, you know."

"I know that," Mitsuki snaps in a tone that reveals he probably didn't know that at all. "I just need to know how it feels. So I don't screw it up."

"How it feels to be choked?" Yamato echoes. He seems to be repeating himself a lot in this conversation. The script in his hands seems far away, his fingertips numb. Mitsuki nods, firm and resolved. "... Nah."

"C'mon!" Mitsuki grabs the arms of Yamato's chair. Mitsu can be so intense. You'd think he'd channel that into something useful, like practicing his lines; but no, he's gone and focused on the choking part. 

Yamato leans towards him, more just to do it than anything else.

Mitsuki doesn't lean away.

"You're a good actor, so this kind of stuff doesn't occur to you," Mitsuki says. If he noticed Yamato moving closer, he doesn't say anything. "But I gotta know how it feels so I don't embarrass myself on TV."

"I can think of easier ways to embarrass yourself."

"Fine, don't help me." Mitsuki pulls away. "I'll ask Iori to do it." He huffs when that really makes Yamato laugh.

"As much as I'd like to see that kid burst into tears at the _idea_ of hurting you," Yamato trails off, setting the script aside. "Don't bother. I'll do it."

"Yeah?" Mitsuki grins, although it's instantly overtaken by a suspicious look. "Wait, why'd you change your mind?"

Maybe because even if it was _definitely_ weird, it wasn't a terrible idea. Yamato hadn't really paid much attention to the choking part of the scene. In a script packed with other more noteworthy things, it's just a couple lines before Iori's character shows up for the final confrontation. A suspenseful bit of blocking ("wraps his fingers around his neck and squeezes") and then it's over. But this choking scene will be Yamato's character's last appearance. He has to make it count, has to give this maniacal traitor a good send off, because if you _must_ star in a drama, you might as well give a great performance, especially if you're one of the villains. 

So maybe it would be a good idea to practice. Before now, the only thing in the scene Yamato was concerned about was if he'd laugh at Mitsuki's serious face. Now, with the choking... Maybe Yamato should figure out what it's like to strangle the life out of somebody. And Mitsuki's offering himself as a willing participant.

Yamato directs his eyes away from the pulse on Mitsuki's neck. "Just... It wouldn't hurt to practice."

They briefly argue over where to start— on the bed seems weirdly intimate, but neither of them want to risk attracting attention by dragging another chair into the room. 

Finally they sit beside one another on the floor.

"Do you want to do the lines too?" Yamato asks.

Mitsuki's face scrunches up in distaste. "No, that's embarrassing."

"We'll have to do it eventually, Mitsu." Tomorrow, even.

"I know the lines!" Mitsuki snaps, "Just hurry up." He moves closer, angling his face forward, the slim length of his neck exposed.

"All right, all right." 

Yamato makes a small show of stretching out his hands, cracking his knuckles. He lets one hand slide around Mitsuki's neck easily, like he's doing something as innocuous as picking up a glass. His grip ghosts over Mitsuki's skin, soft and jumpy under the pads of his fingers.

"You don't need to, like," Mitsuki swallows and from this angle Yamato can _see_ it travel down his throat, "drag it out."

"Shh," he says, a facsimile of comfort, a crude consolation as he wraps his fingers around Mitsuki's neck. That pulse he saw is now thrumming fast in his grasp, like a rabbit in a trap. "Let your big brother do this."

With a slow, testing motion, he press his thumbs into Mitsuki's windpipe—

and recoils as Mitsuki involuntarily kicks him in the shin. "Ow!"

"Ah, sorry," Mitsuki mutters. Yamato doesn't think he looks all that sorry. "You just surprised me." Yamato maintains a safe distance, rethinking this whole experiment. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't bother. Honestly, if it had been anybody else asking to do something as ridiculous as 'practice choking,' it probably would've be a trick. _Oh, you really thought I was serious, huh, Leader?_ But that's too nefarious for someone as honest as Mitsuki. Mitsuki wouldn't bother doing something that calculated and cruel (one of many differences between them) because Mitsuki doesn't work like that.

A small voice in the back of his head says, _He wouldn't do that because he trusts you._

Yamato keeps his hands to himself, his own trust shaken.

"Don't worry about that." Mitsuki sighs through his nose. Yamato doesn't feel like he's worried about anything. The situation suddenly seems loose and off balance somehow; Yamato wants to be able to hold it in one hand like he held Mitsuki's throat.

"Sorry, okay?" Mitsuki smiles, and a tight sensation at the base of Yamato's spine loosens minutely. "It's fine! Look, I'll raise my hand if you really hurt me."

The idea that he could hurt Mitsuki crashes into Yamato completely. He hadn't been worried about that before. Should he be worried about that? This is actually kind of dangerous, isn't it?

"Like at the dentist?" Despite his reservations, Yamato can feel himself smiling. Muscle memory; keep the nerves off your face when confronted with an unforeseen scenario. The off balance sensation is back.

"Yeah," Mitsuki nods and inches towards him. "Try it again." His voice is soft but insistent. His stare pierces the limited space between them as he lifts his chin. "Be gentle."

Yamato is suddenly overly aware of his own breathing, the flutter of nerves in the center of his chest.

Tentatively, his closes his hand around Mitsuki. One hand, then another, overlapping each other and the fluttering muscles of Mitsuki's neck. This time, Yamato is careful to angle himself away from any errant kicks.

He's not sure how he'll recreate this in the morning, under the harsh lighting of the set. There they'll be acting; Mitsuki play-struggling with his face all drawn up in the serious expressions Yamato had laughed about earlier. And they'll be surrounded by the rest of the cast and crew, watching for script inconsistencies and making safety precautions. Now there's no safety, no audience; it's just the two of them in this dim room, quiet enough Yamato can distantly hear the other members of IDOLiSH7 going about their business in the dorm. He can hear the hitch in Mitsuki's breath as he struggles for air, see it in the protest that laces through his muscles. 

But Mitsuki doesn't fight him, doesn't move away. He is pliant in his hands.

As Yamato squeezes, Mitsuki's skin, which earlier had gone pink to the tips of his ears, goes dull. Mitsuki's tense expression loosens in incremental moments, color siphoning away with every missed breath.

It's surprisingly cute, Yamato thinks, inexplicably, and immediately lets go.

"Why do you keep," Mitsuki takes a hurried gulp of air, wetting his lips, "stopping like that?"

"Because if I don't, you'll suffocate." Yamato points out, ever the patient and instructive leader.

"I know," Mitsuki snaps and bizarrely they're whispering. "That's exactly what I want you to do."

Yamato feels his own pulse speed up. What Mitsuki wants... This entire situation is strange. All Yamato wants is to just have gone to the bar like he suggested.

Slowly, Yamato slides back into place; Mitsuki's throat is a familiar weight in his hands.

"Last chance," Yamato warns. "If you want to stop…”

"I just said I don't!" Mitsuki's voice is forced, more strained as Yamato flexes his fingers around his Adam's apple. "Stop— talking."

"You could be a little more obedient, you know," Yamato hums, closing his fists. "Since you're asking me to do you a favor and all."

Mitsuki's nervous expression shifts to an irritable one, mouth twisted and fussed. Yamato thinks he ought to squeeze harder for that, relish in wringing the life out of Mitsuki for acting so bratty. Instead he starts counting the seconds in his head. He'll have to keep track of how long the choking lasts; Mitsuki's too stubborn to be smart about this.

From this close, Mitsuki's eyelashes are surprisingly long, fluttering as a calm settles over his face. Mitsuki's head tips back, his eyes closing. The silence between them stretches on. His mouth falls open, lips moving soundlessly. Mitsuki's not usually this quiet. His soft, pink tongue is extremely distracting.

Something eases into the periphery of Yamato's vision. 

It's his hand. Mitsuki is raising his hand.

Yamato lets go fast, hands snaking back to his sides. His heartbeat pounds loud in his ears, nearly as loud as Mitsuki's hacking coughs.

Mitsuki hesitantly reaches for his throat, fingers grazing over the skin, like he's afraid to rewrite Yamato's handprint. Yamato has the distinct impression he's lost control of the situation, like the moment where you realize you might have got on a train going in the wrong direction.

"How was that?" he asks. The choking, not Mitsuki's neck. He has to hold himself back from checking on Mitsuki. He isn't worried about hurting him. He _shouldn't_ be worried about it. Mitsuki wasn't concerned about it, after all, and Yamato won't be the one to break first. Or whatever 'breaking' means in this scenario.

He watches Mitsuki like you might watch the scenery that roars past the train as you try and decipher if you're headed in the right direction. As you reassess the platform you were on, the route you took to get to where you were going, and if you correctly reverse-engineered your path to end up where you wanted to be.

"Fine," Mitsuki manages between coughs. "Let's try it again."

The dull thud of the realization that you are absolutely on the wrong train and, worse, it's the last train of the night.

 _I have to get control of this situation_ , Yamato thinks. They have to stop, but he can't be the one to break.

"You know," Yamato hears himself talking before he can stop himself, "I'm pretty sure the blocking for this scene has me on top of you." Voice raw, Mitsuki practically shrieks in disagreement. 

The choking practice pauses while they huddle over the script.

"See?" Yamato points to the blocking in question. He finds himself glancing at Mitsuki when he's sure he won't be noticed, watching his eyes slowly scan over the words on the page. 

"Huh," Mitsuki says, voice devoid of anything useful. "Okay, I guess." Genuine frustration builds in the center of Yamato's chest. Irritated, he lets his hands fall over Mitsuki's shoulders, folds him back to the floor and assume a position straddling his hips. Like he can force Mitsuki into backing down by barreling forward with this situation, by pretending this entire night isn't completely surreal.

Mitsuki raises his eyebrows, unimpressed with being manhandled into place. "This is practically fan service."

"I think it makes sense," Yamato smiles again, tight at the corners, flexing his acting muscles. "If you're choking someone with the intent to kill."

Mitsuki rolls his eyes, unconvinced.

"You really should examine why you keep getting these kind of masochistic roles." Mitsuki leans up on one elbow. "There's a creepy vibe you keep putting out into the world. You should do something about that."

"Stop stalling."

Mitsuki frowns, but settles back down, goes quiet.

His chest rises and falls under Yamato, preemptively holding his breath as Yamato leans forward. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose and over them Mitsuki looks blurred and off balance even this close up. 

_Well_ , Yamato thinks. _No point in waiting on ceremony,_ and grabs Mitsuki's throat. He doesn't bother counting this time (it's too distracting,) choosing instead to focus the corded muscles in his hands. How hard can he dig his fingers in before Mitsuki lifts that little hand again? What boundaries can he push as Mitsuki shifts and twists against him, his head tossed back against the carpet. His eyes squeeze close, his shoulders bunch up tight around his ears. Yamato presses his thumbs down and Mitsuki's leg jerks roughly, pinned down by Yamato's weight. Mitsuki's mouth opens and closes, struggling to make a sound. 

Something close to panic thrills under his skin. He could stop, but... if Mitsuki wanted him to stop, he'd lift his hand. If he was hurt he'd give a sign. That was the agreement, he has to trust that even as Mitsuki squirms.

Still, Yamato relaxes his hands, ease up on the skin that looks bone-white from the constricted blood flow.

Mitsuki draws a ragged breath. It rushes under his palms.

"Yamato," Mitsuki growls. "You're not supposed to stop—" and Yamato presses his weight down again, cuts him off. The body beneath his seizes as Yamato digs his fingers into the dip of Mitsuki's throat. The tendons in his neck give from the pressure and Mitsuki struggles with a small, choked noises escaping Yamato's grip.

They fall into a funny dance; Yamato easing up on the pressure long enough for Mitsuki to take a shallow scrape of air, before Yamato closes his hands tight again. As each inhale became more of a chore, he keeps expecting Mitsuki to lift his hand, for Mitsuki to kick him away and shoot their dear leader a hurt, miserable glare. Mitsuki's watery voice condemning him, saying Yamato went too far, that wasn't what he wanted. 

Yamato presses tight into the soft flesh and waits for that, waits for something, anything else. Mitsuki's hand stays down, quiet except for the soft whines when he's let up for air.

"You don't want me to stop?" Yamato hears himself murmuring. 

He leans into Mitsuki hard enough it pushes his head back, lifts his chin. It gives his face a haughty look; challenging, daring Yamato to keep going. Yamato feels breathless with Mitsuki elastic in his grasp. He's practically dizzy from the way Mitsuki's body moves against his own. But those stuttering movements, they're only a reflex. Yamato dismisses them, even as Mitsuki's eyes slide closed, lips chewed raw and plump as he grinds his hips against Yamato's—

Yamato rips away, stumbling back across the carpet. He has to put as much distance as possible between them, between whatever just happened.

He flexes his hands quickly, like he can shake off the feeling of Mitsuki's thudding pulse under them. Like his muscles can forget how it made him feel when the other man's hips had lifted infinitesimally off the floor. 

Mitsuki sits up slowly, sucking air back into his lungs.

"Hey," he growls, rubbing his throat. "Why'd you stop?" 

Yamato struggles to grab the script from where it'd been discarded, desperate to place anything over his lap.

"Ah, Mitsu." Yamato hears his voice higher than usual, or it just sounds that way after the roughness of Mitsuki's voice, in the chill of what just happened. "Isn't it getting late? We have an early call tomorrow, right?"

"I guess." Mitsuki eyes him suspiciously.

"Right, so let's finish up." He hurriedly shoos Mitsuki out. "The scene will be fine. It'll be great, even. Great. Goodnight."

He shuts the door in Mitsuki's face and quickly turns off the lights. Yamato doesn't move until he hears Mitsuki's footsteps retreating, doesn't breathe until he hears the click of another door closing.

Yamato throws himself face down on his bed, and, against every urge in his body, keeps his hands at his sides. Think about something else, anything else, anything to banish the thought of Mitsuki writhing under him. Think about monotonous voice lessons, the taste of room temperature King Pudding, being forced to listen to Nagi's Magical Girl Kokona theories. 

He rolls onto his back and stares furiously at the ceiling.

_You went too far, you probably hurt him._

A self-loathing thought like that should do the trick. Yamato can feel his coiled nerves loosening, a welcomed ice cold fear creeping down the back of his neck. He's stupid and gross and Mitsuki's too good of a guy to tell Yamato that he crossed a line. In the light of that fear and worry, Yamato starts to feel his excitement ebb away.

Except.

Except when Mitsuki's hips pressed against him — that fleeting, panicked motion — didn't it feel like...

_Like Mitsuki liked it too._

"Damnit," Yamato mutters and caves, sliding a hand between his legs.

  


  


* * *

  


  


The next day Yamato is a complete professional. 

The most important thing is that today's shoot is his character's last scene, so Yamato has to give him a proper goodbye. Sure, his character is a murdering psychopath, but he's a murdering psychopath Yamato worked very hard to make entertaining. The best use of his time is to focus on that farewell, on delivering his lines perfectly, on mimicking the pressure of coiling his fist around Mitsuki's throat— all without touching him, of course. Yamato makes sure his weight isn't fully settled over Mitsuki's, just to be safe. 

He keeps his distance and only thinks about making the script's build-up of a prickly but benevolent police chief into a terrorist as nuanced and natural as possible.

Yamato knuckles are white, white as the skin of Mitsuki's neck when he'd choked; white as Yamato's teeth as he bares them, bringing his face so close that he can hear the hitch in Mitsuki's breath. Not from being strangled this time, but from fear.

 _Good, be frightened of me,_ Yamato thinks, a totally reasonable and normal response. Because strangling someone, it's frightening, isn't it? Not at all sexy. Completely professional.

The director calls 'cut' and the room erupts into soft chatter, murmurs of praise. When Yamato stands, he holds out a hand to help Mitsuki up. Mitsuki takes it, eases to his feet. The knot of worry in Yamato's shoulders feels looser when the director looks up from the playback and announces a wrap on the scene.

"Good thing we practiced," Yamato says easily, rolling his shoulders under the crisp lines of his costume.

"Mm."

They sit in a casual silence at the edge of the set. Iori gets some direction from the producer. Tamaki fusses with his prop headset, to the chagrin of a nearby aide.

"Looks like the kids will be stuck doing reshoots," he says, turning his attention back to Mitsuki. "Want to grab a drink?"

"Ah," Mitsuki's voice hangs in the air uncertainly. "No thanks."

Yamato's body goes ice cold.

Back in the dorms, Yamato slams his door closed so hard he hears a couple figures fall off the shelves in Nagi's room. _Good,_ he thinks again. Good, he can ruin something else someone loves, just like he ruined this. Ruined IDOLiSH7, ruined the drama. Ruined Mitsuki — not that kind of ruin, but an abstract, friendship kind of ruin that Yamato has systematically dismantled with his perverse need to—

 _To what?_ a low voice in the back of his mind taunts him. _What did you want to do?_ Yamato knows and doesn't know what he wanted from Mitsuki, laid out under him. 

Yamato drinks can after can of beer to push those thoughts away, but they keep bubbling to the surface. Images of Mitsuki, pouty lipped and arching hips. 

Yamato presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

He had the idiocy to think today was being professional — professional? More like a professional monster! Mitsuki had trusted him, had asked Yamato to do something innocent, something easy like practice a scene, and Yamato couldn't just do what his friend asked. Couldn't just help and not make things weird. Yamato had to twist it, make it into something sickening. He's not capable of playing normal for one minute. He can't be trusted with friends, with teammates.

Obviously Mitsuki noticed and doesn't want anything more to do with him. Of course. Why would he? Mitsu is a good person. All the kids, they're all so _good_ and kind and honest and Yamato is... He's some disgusting, deceptive monster who enjoyed strangling his best friend. What a joke. It'd be funny if Yamato didn't feel his eyes prickling at the corners. He's so stupid. A stupid, friendship-ruining pervert.

The phone in his pocket chirps- a rabbit chat from Tsumugi.

  


  


* * *

  


  


"Ugh, you stink," Mitsuki says and pushes past Yamato into his room.

Yamato tracks Mitsuki with his gaze, slow and uneven thanks to the alcohol. Mitsuki steps over a couple of discarded, half-crumpled cans.

"Can I use this?" Mitsuki asks, plucking the towel(!!) from the floor beside Yamato's bed. The cloth easily wipes away the cakey foundation from Mitsuki's face; the eyeliner after some scrubbing. Yamato feels a weak, residual smugness when Mitsuki uses the washcloth to wipe his mouth. _He doesn't know what you did with that_. And then, blindingly; _You are so sick it's out of control._

"Don't... use that." Yamato makes a small, abortive move towards him.

Mitsuki pauses, washcloth at his neck. He's wiping away concealer there, revealing a palm-shaped bruise.

"Oh," Yamato says, extremely elegant, and pitches his eyes to the ceiling. He can feel hot, angry tears welling at the corner of his eyes. Of course he bruised Mitsuki with their practice last night. Of course, because he's out of control.

"Oh, relax," Mitsuki rolls his eyes, tossing the cloth back to Yamato. "It doesn't hurt." Next he tosses himself bodily onto the bed. He gestures Yamato closer and Yamato obeys. It's the least he can do after ruining literally their entire future together.

Not that Yamato was ever imagining a future with Mitsuki. That's stupid, he's being incredibly stupid lately. 

Yamato sinks into a seat next to Mitsuki, who inches closer. 

"I like it," Mitsuki says.

"Like what?" Yamato's voice is thick; there's a bad taste on his tongue.

"The bruises." Something pulses, deceptive and low on Yamato's body. Mitsuki continues innocently, like what he just admitted wasn't batshit insane, "It's a reminder our Leader wanted so bad to be helpful he left a mark." From the corner of his eye he can see Mitsuki fussing with the collar of his shirt. "Now you can't take that back."

Yamato stares at a point on the wall and stays silent. Inside he's screaming— _of course_ he wants to take it back. It was fucked up what he did, what they did. It's not normal. Where is Mitsuki going with this, saying stuff like he likes the bruises?

"So." He can feel Mitsuki's eyes on him. "Manager said you're pretty upset."

"She did?" Yamato is suddenly aware of the can in his hands. He knocks back another swig, breathing on a rough exhale. "Little kids should mind their own business."

"Oh, yeah?" It's funny, they've known each other long enough that Yamato can _hear_ the smirk in Mitsuki's tone. Funny and completely infuriating. "So it's none of my business you got drunk 'cause of me."

Yamato's mouth curls with dislike, but he's too drunk to argue properly. He doesn't have enough sense to snap, _No, it wasn't just about you,_ which would be direct and to the point, if not entirely untrue. 

"Did you want something?" Yamato asks, angling away from Mitsuki's approach.

The silence between them is potent and meaningful. Where is he going with this? Yamato's inebriated thought process reels. What does he want from me? An apology hangs in his mouth. Apologize for what? Being a terrible pervert? No, he'll take that to the grave first. For hurting Mitsuki? No, Mitsuki said he would stop Yamato and he didn't. Besides, apparently the other man _likes_ the bruises, which is completely insane. If anything, Mitsuki should be the one saying sorry; sorry he asked something of Yamato he wasn't prepared to give. Sorry he put Yamato in an awkward situation and then, bizarrely, iced him out after practice, so much so that their Manager had to intervene. 

If anyone should be sorry, it's Mitsuki.

And then,

 _Oh god, he's going to apologize,_ Yamato thinks, panicked at the idea of emotional vulnerability.

He has to stop this. They've gone too far. He has to get control of the situation. "Mitsu—"

"You think they'll need us to film that scene again?"

"What?" This is a completely unintelligible line of questioning. Yamato drops his eyes to the beer can, fusses with the tab. "Ah... Probably not."

"Yeah, you did a good job." Mitsuki says, moving closer. Their knees touch. Yamato is ninety percent sure it isn't just the alcohol affecting his brain, but this situation is really defying all expectations. "Maybe we can practice again for the sequel."

Yamato is about to argue that his character's probably not going be in the sequel after falling to his death in the last scene when Mitsuki climbs into his lap.

Yamato sits completely still, hands hovering awkwardly, like he's afraid to touch the other man. Mitsuki tilts his head to the side and smiles wide, a nervous reflex, and something erupts in the center of Yamato's chest. Mitsuki is really, really handsome.

"What..." Yamato's tongue is like a stone in his mouth. 

Mitsuki reaches for Yamato's hands and guides them from his sides. Yamato feels entirely helpless in his grip. Is this how Mitsuki felt last night? It's not so bad, letting someone else move you around, not so bad if that person is someone as trustworthy and good as Mitsuki.

Mitsuki lifts Yamato's wrists, guiding his hands forward, and closing Yamato's fingers around his throat.

"Uh?" Yamato is suddenly very worried he might burst into tears. "Mitsu?"

"Hold here," Mitsuki says, voice conspiratorially low and Yamato is stupidly obedient, graciously repeating the movements from yesterday. Mitsuki's chest arches out, body rolling with the strain of being deprived of air. 

Again, the situation feels separate from him. Yamato is a passenger on a train, only this train's not just going the wrong way; it's careening off the track. Tipping off the rails and plummeting down, farther and farther as Yamato wrings his neck, their hips rolling against one another.

He tips his face forward, buried into Mitsuki's shoulder, and muffles an indulgent moan.

Mitsuki squirms his neck free. "I knew it," he hisses, breathless and victorious. "I knew you liked it too." 

Yamato wonders if he can keep his face hidden here, in the dip of Mitsuki's shoulder. _You have to get control of this situation,_ he thinks. And also: _Can you die of embarrassment, here in Mitsu's arms?_

"Aw, now you're being shy." Mitsuki sniggers, trying to nudge Yamato's face off his shoulder. He groans, less in pleasure, more in irritation as they struggle, Mitsuki's hands clawing at his face.

Yamato levels him with a glare. He ought to haul Mitsuki off his lap, hurl him across the room. He could close his hands around Mitsuki's throat for real this time, and miserably, Yamato knows he doesn't really want that. He doesn't want to do anything Mitsuki doesn't like. 

"What is this?" he mutters. His face is unbearably hot as Mitsuki straightens his glasses. "I thought you were scared of me."

"Not really," Mitsuki hums, tucking a lock of hair behind Yamato's ear, fussing over him like he's a child. "It was just weird, you know? You getting all turned on choking me last night, and then today you being all terrifying."

"That was work," Yamato presses. He bats Mitsuki's hands away from his face. He doesn't want to be doted on. Doesn't want to hurt Mitsuki or push him away either. He wants, he wants... "What is this?" he repeats, when he's sure he can force his voice to stay even.

"I don't know," Mitsuki says, honest affection terrifying to look head-on. "But you like it, right?" He slots his hips closer to Yamato's, and the cord of tension building inside Yamato snaps.

"Don't sound so pleased with yourself," Yamato hisses, surging forward into a kiss. His teeth bite into Mitsuki's lips, mouth chasing the small eke of sounds from the other man, the twist of their bodies together. He clutches Mitsuki tight against him, fists coiled at his waist.

In the miserable aftermath of last night, Yamato hadn't imagined kissing Mitsuki. He'd thought about all kinds of other things— Mitsuki, pinned down by his hips and panting, Mitsuki's skin sticky between them, Mitsuki's mouth on his chest, then lower. But kissing is new. New and not completely unwelcome. Mitsuki kisses like he doesn't have any idea what he's doing (cute), which means he probably can't tell Yamato is also working with limited experience. There's a determined edge to his kissing, instinctual in its wanting as they crash together. It's awkward and messy; he can feel Mitsuki's grin when their teeth clink together.

Mitsuki slides a hand into Yamato's hair, nails scraping against his skin. His tongue in Yamato's mouth, while they rock their hips together, rutting like animals in heat.

What did they do to get here? His brain is fuzzy with alcohol and arousal. How can he recreate this moment? To be sure he keeps Mitsuki like this forever; willing and wanting, clutching Yamato desperately close.

After what feels like forever, Mitsuki pulls his face away, breathing hard like his airways are constricted again. Yamato finds himself leaning after the contact.

"Hey." Mitsuki's voice is heavy, eyes wild. He pushes Yamato back, manhandling him into place the same way Yamato did last night, shifting until he's straddling Yamato's hips. Yamato manages a weak, self-indulgent arch against the contact. Mitsuki's laugh hits him right between the legs.

Suddenly the pressure is off his hips, as Mitsuki shimmies down his body, hands at the front of Yamato's pants. "Do you wanna..." He trails off. 

Yamato feels a laugh bubbling up before he can stop it. Wanna... what? Even when they're groping like teenagers, Mitsuki still can't bring himself to say something potentially embarrassing. 

"Yeah," Yamato nods, arm splayed up over his face. He takes a few heady gulps of air before realizing that sound he hears is Mitsuki unbuckling his belt. "Wait, shit. I mean— No."

"No?" Mitsuki counters, eyes wide. His hands snap away from Yamato's crotch, and Yamato's body, a rude, treacherous thing, keens after the lost contact.

"No, I mean..." Yamato pushes himself up on his elbows, hoping he doesn't look too guilty. "I mean, I can't— right now... I'm too—" He gestures awkwardly.

"Oh." Realization hits Mitsuki square in the face. His eyes dart nervously from the cans littering the floor, the heat of intoxication in Yamato's cheeks. "Yeah. No. That's cool." He winces. "Not cool, I mean..." Mitsuki scrubs a hand over his face. "Don't worry about it. Maybe another time."

Yamato considers this. What if he has to wait until the next drama for another chance like this? Where hopefully they'll be given combative parts and have an excuse to roll around on the ground with Mitsuki again. 

"No," Yamato growls and shoves Mitsuki onto his back, one hand down his pants, the other around his throat. Mitsuki's eyes snap wide, a brief repeat of his fear from earlier in the evening — Yamato is awful, disgusting, a terrible pervert who ruined everything — before he groans. His hands scrabble at his sides, kicking out of his pants and boxers.

In a tremendous feat of agility while drunk, Yamato simultaneously closes one hand around Mitsuki's throat, and the other around Mitsuki's cock.

There's nothing manly about the sound Mitsuki makes before his air is cut off, nothing tough about the short hiccup of a cry that slips past his lips. Yamato could make fun of him for it if he hadn't just admitted to alcohol induced impotence. But that's fine, he'll make Mitsuki forget all about that, make him forget all the embarrassing things they've done in the past twenty-four hours. 

Mitsuki thrusts into his touch, dick red and leaking. Yamato leans on his other hand, forcing pressure against the soft sleeve of Mitsuki's neck. Mitsuki writhes, hips arching off the bed, staring at Yamato hungrily as his choked moans vibrate against Yamato's palm.

There's a thrill of control in knowing that if he lifts his hands, Yamato can stop all of this. He could stop, he could fight this, he could take his hands off the parts of Mitsuki that throbs in his grip, shivering and spasming with life.

Mitsuki comes fast with Yamato's hand still around his throat, eyes squeezed shut, thighs shuddering. He pulls back as Mitsuki gasps for air. That familiar, icy fear creeps up his spine as Mitsuki lifts one hand to his throat.

 _Don't ask if he's okay. Don't let him know how out of control this makes you feel, how he makes you feel._ He has to stay distant, separate.

"Was that okay?" Yamato asks, voice deceptively small.

Mitsuki sits up slowly, tipping his face forward. Thankfully, he's only moving in for a kiss; good, Yamato's fingers were starting to cramp.

"Yeah," he murmurs, words hot against Yamato's mouth. "It was great." 

Yamato hands over the wash cloth from before and Mitsuki dabs at the mess dying over his stomach. 

As he watches Mitsuki clean himself up, arousal thunders through Yamato as natural and distant as his pulse. He finds himself counting minutes until his reactions sober up, until he can tip Mitsuki's head back and choke him with his cock down his throat. Yamato shudders, passing a hand over his face. He's thinking filthy things to avoid the intensity of how he must be watching Mitsuki now; embarrassingly dreamy-eyed.

"Wait," Mitsuki says. Only Mitsuki isn't looking at him, he's staring at the towel in his hands. "Wait, is this what you use this towel for?" He roars in frustration, shoving Yamato off the bed when he laughs. "Gross! You let me use it on my _face_!"

**Author's Note:**

> happy late yamamitsu day, i'm not even that into choking???
> 
> follow me on twitter @mobchuu !


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